Ascent into Legend
by crumpetbeast
Summary: After his quest to recapture the Black Pearl, Captain Jack Sparrow has become a legend among pirates, but is there a price for his fame? Jealousy on the high seas, mate!
1. To the Devil and Davy Jones

**Disclaimer:** Alas, but Jack Sparrow, ahem, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow and his crew be not of me possession. I may be the fiercest scalawag this side o' the map, but I be but a humble servant of all that is Disney. Arr.. 

**Notes from the Author:** It seems the "Pirates.." category has become a mighty vessel in these few weeks since the release of the film, but I could not resist affixing my own paltry addition to it. Jack Sparrow is quite the devil and the charmer, is he not? Hamina hamina! Here's to hoping you enjoy my fic, and a toast to many bountiful (and funnier, we all hope) chapters in the future! Please let me know what you think, or if you have any ideas/improvements for future additions. Thank you! 

------------------------------ 

**Ascent into Legend   
Chapter I**

The yellow-lit lanterns and candles on the walls and tables of the Dancing Crab jangled and jigged along to the music of the happy sailors, raucous tunes of the type you'd find in any tavern, mixed with a healthy dose of lewd and violent interjections that can only be spat from the lips of a true blue Pirate. One crew or another long at sea had just come in to port, their bellies empty and their purses full, ready and willing to spend their stolen cash on anything that could be eaten, drunk, or bedded, no matter the cost. Nearly two dozen men crowded the tavern, rum-soaked, gnawing on fistfuls of pork, singing and relating their tales of the open sea. Most of these were near the hearth, old feuds and disputes forgotten momentarily as they celebrated together their return to shore, but a few held back from the crowd, talking quietly at the bar. 

Among these few were Jack Sparrow, legendary pirate and captain of the _Black Pearl_, along with his companion and shipmate, Mr. Gibbs. Two tankards more than half empty stood on the bar between them, and their faces were red with the liquor, but their voices weren't slurred with drunkenness (any more than usual, that is). Their looks were hard toward each other, Gibbs' brow furrowed with worry, Jack's mouth turned down in disgust, but they each held their tongues until the barkeep was pulled away, and they were out of earshot of him and his wandering lips. 

"Jack," Gibbs hissed, leaning forward. "I talked to Old Bailey today, and ya knows what he 'ad t' say?" 

"The shipwright? Looking to build a ship of your own, mate?" Jack replied, his voice husky and garbled, his face newly alight with merriment. One look at him and you'd think the two were locked in some elaborate jest, but glance again and you'd see Gibbs' face was no mockery of concern, and Jack's eyes were hard and flinty. He knew exactly what Old Bailey had said, but he wasn't in a mind to hear it. 

"Jack, ya can't dance 'round it no longer. Old Bailey said she ain't fit t' sail. It's time ya let 'er go." 

"Blind as a bat, Old Bailey. Couldn't tell a doubloon from a pint of rum, he couldn't." Jack replied, taking a swig from his tankard and smiling like an old whore without a penny in her pocket. Anybody with two eyes, blind or no, could tell the _Black Pearl_ was done for, but he'd be stuck through and hung by the gizzard before he'd let her go without a fight. Ten years he'd spent trying to get her back, ten years he'd fought and plotted for her, and he wasn't one to sacrifice for nothing. After his recent exploits with Barbossa, it had taken more gold than he cared to admit to patch the _Pearl_ up, but he and the crew had done it swiftly, muttering about forks all the while. Then, she was back up to scratch, the finest ship on the water, the terror of the seas! It had been a fine month of gallivanting with the men after that, until three days before, when they'd been attacked by a rival pirate vessel. 

The _Pearl_ had been anchored close to a fleet of small merchant ships heading to the Caribbean from England, who had already cut their losses and decided to give up their cargo. With bountiful insurance policies laid on their merchandise, most ships gave in easily to the threat of a pirate craft; being ransacked was considered a business hazard. Jack, being the soft-hearted scalawag that he was, was always much obliged to pillage and plunder without the trouble of spilling blood, and he made sure his men did not get overzealous during their marauding. Captain Sparrow and his crew had already boarded the ship and were deeply immersed in linen and spices and chests of gold trinkets when they heard the first cannon fire. 

Thinking the merchants had screwed up their mettle to tamper with their ship, Jack and his men raced to the deck to find only astonished British faces watching the destruction of the _Black Pearl_. Just beyond the black sails of Jack's ship was another vessel, small, but heavy-laden with cannons, flying under a red flag. From that distance it was easy to see the great hourglass adorning their Jolly Roger, signaling that their time was running out, and indeed it was. The _Pearl_ had nearly been blown to bits by the time Jack and his crew had made their cannons ready to return fire, and by that time the enemy vessel was gliding easily out of range. That had been the start of Jack's sore mood, when he ordered the men to forget the spoils, as well as the worthless clod that, instead of keeping his watch, had been trying to find a bit of entertainment with the buxom English cook. He'd forgotten his lost prize alright, but he'd be damned if he'd forget his hard-won _Pearl_, and he asserted as much to Gibbs. 

"Jack, you'll go to the Devil and Davy Jones if ye persist with this ruddy nonsense! The _Pearl_ is shark bait, and yer a bloody fool if ye think otherwise. It's bad luck t' be lashin' yerself to the figurehead o' a sinkin' ship," said Gibbs, with a look of Puritan righteousness that hardly dared to be scorned. Jack, however, heedlessly ignored Gibbs and all his superstition, despite its being quite sensible in this case. He was in a bloody foul mood, and Gibbs spouting sense and reason like some damnable scholar was only serving to worsen it. Jack wasn't a simpleton, and he'd gained more of his share of sense and cleverness during his long years on the crests of the waves, but Gibbs' holy preaching was a lot of rational garbage he just didn't care to hear. 

Jack sloshed his tankard empty over the general vicinity of his mouth, and brandished it high in the air for a refill. Gibbs was going at it again, and it was going to take a hell of a lot of the Dancing Crab's watered-down alcohol to make his current life even passably tolerable. Behind Gibbs' lecturing, Jack could easily discern a storm brewing within the rabble, who were never on genial terms for long once ashore. Hard as it was to divide some types of booty, some of the men had begun disputing what part of their most recent prize was rightfully theirs. The volume increased at a fevered pitch with curses being shouted to the four winds, and all the while Mr. Gibbs continued his tirade, oblivious to them and to Jack's stalwart inattention. 

Jack down another half of his tankard in an attempt to drown out his unusually talkative shipmate, staring moodily at the dust-caked kegs behind the counter. The ruckus around the hearth had grown to a brawl, shaking the candle-laden lanterns hung from the ceiling from their easy shuddering jig into a series of boisterous jumps, as though they were skipping on the swells of the ocean during a squall. A glob of hot melted wax fell from its precariously swinging holder onto the brim of Jack's battered trifold, where it slipped and slid down the weather-beaten leather onto his weather-beaten face. Normally, he would've chuckled good-naturedly and swiped it away with a flick of his sleeve, but in his disconsolate agitation he stood with the suddenness of a man sober and set his tankard down with a thunderous clap on the counter. 

"_Can't you bloody well change the subject already?_" he bellowed, his eyes shut hard against the throbbing in his head from drink and irritation. He usually wasn't one to direct the attention of a crowd, but every man in the tavern dropped his fist and jaw at his bark, reddening at their moment of incivility. Normally they wouldn't have shook a whisker, but the man who'd brought the mighty _Black Pearl_, the ship that had been tainted by the Devil's own sailors for the past decade, back to its golden prime commanded the buccaneers' utmost respect. Without so much as a curse uttered, the men throughout the tavern settled back into their seats around the fire, their quarrel quickly shoved under the hearthrug. Jack, however, did not return to his stool, for the man for whom his question had been intended took precious little notice of him at all. With a grimace at Gibbs, he flung his neglected dreadlocks over his shoulder and wavered out of the room. 

Gibbs pursed his lips in distaste and took a look into Jack's tankard, which sat lonesomely on the counter where he'd left it in a huff. 

"Old dog must be sufferin' out o' his head---he left 'af his rum," 

------------------------------ 

And so, Chapter I meets its demise. A fine start, methinks. R&R, arrr! 


	2. Taking Due Note of New Drawers and Old

**Disclaimer:** Alas, but Jack Sparrow, ahem, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow and his crew be not of me possession. I may be the fiercest scalawag this side o' the map, but I be but a humble servant of all that is Disney. Arr.. 

**Notes from the Author:** For my second entry, something a bit more lighthearted than the first. Just a little mandatory hooker-humor, and, good news: Jack's back to his old self, hurrah! I just couldn't allow him to wallow in his angst for long...Thank you to those who've reviewed, and to those who haven't..**brandishes the Mighty Cutlass of Doooom at ye** 

------------------------------ 

**Ascent into Legend   
Chapter II**

In exiting the Dancing Crab, Jack had sought for silence and solitude, which, as we all know, is an atmosphere more properly suited to brooding. What he found out on the main street of Tortuga, however, was far from silence; in fact, it was probably as far from silence as you could get before you had to turn around and come back. Though the stars had been keeping their silent vigil for hours by the time Jack found himself under them, the street was seething with life, folk of almost all varieties frolicking in careless revelry. 

All around and in the street life danced chaotically by, like a swarm of flies on a bucket of sun-warmed bait. People of all manner of shapes, sizes and states of dress and drunkenness were scattered about, and though Midnight had long since gone, the street was lit up as bright as day with the gay, glowing faces of the revelers. While the good people of Tortuga (what few there were) lay with their pillows over their heads, the heady, wild folk kept each other company in a flurry of laughter and an easy flow of rum. 

The raucous scene that lay before him pulled Jack's spirits up like no other redbird could, putting him in a mind to shed the sullen mood he'd sunken into. The _Black Pearl_ lay with water a fathom-and-a-half above her barnacles in the harbor, but in this damned depression he could hardly be asked to drag up a brilliant plan for her rescue, could he? Making this acknowledgment perked him up considerably, as, if he were going to rush headlong into some new harebrained scheme or another, he would much rather do in his usual fashion—with a crooked grin on his face and a pint in his fist. A happy Jack is an efficient Jack, yes sir, and make no mistake! 

"In the noise and colors of the street, with gaudy streamers flying from the brothel houses and liquor running in the gutters, it was easy to get lost in all the merrymaking. Jack himself was no stranger to nightlife in Tortuga, indeed, he picked up his heels and pranced down the boulevard with the experienced feet of an old coat. Even in the moonlight his swaying gait and figure were easily distinguishable, and from the red-swathed balconies issued a spray of catcalls and whistles. 

"I haven't been the same since you met my pillow, Jack," one buxom madam called, ruffling her bedraggled, uncurled hair. 

_"I haven't been the same since I met your pillow, either, love,"_ he thought, reflexively scratching his head. A month to sea with headlice would make any sailor choose his pleasurable company more wisely. 

"We thought you'd drowned in yer rum, Jack!" cried a snaggled-toothed harlot, snorting loudly at her waggery. Jack play-frowned at her and raised his empty hands, as if to bemoan his lack of rum to drown in. 

"Been saddled with old Gibbs," he replied, pursing his lips flirtatiously at the terrace-maids. They giggled loudly and wiggled their bosoms at him from the railing, no doubt inviting him to "saddle up" with them. He ambled toward the side of the road and took a long glance up, swiftly garnering a torrent of playful banter about his wandering eyes. 

"Present, ho! me lovelies." he ordered, and the ladies above him cackled as they hauled up their skirts for him in a comical display of pink ruffled pantaloons. Jack recognized the familiar fares at once (successfully neglecting to reason that they all still wore their old undergarments might stem from the fact that they were, in fact, overlooking their washing), and took due note of any new drawers (as there were apt to be, as more respectable young ladies lost their respectability every day). For their compliance, they received a roguish wink, and a momentary show of his rarely bared head as he bowed in a mockery of a gentleman. 

"Jack, be a sport and leave some o' the ladies for an old sot like me," came a voice that sounded like it had once had a commanding air about it, but had long since lost it somewhere rolling in the mud. "No honest man –hic– like me could dare compete with such boyish good looks." 

Jack whirled around unsteadily to peer out the owner of this voice and quickly laid eyes on a man of incredible importance in Tortuga, to fit his incredible girth. He was a former military man, once respectable among the nobility of Port Royal and Kingston, who'd taken heavily to drink after the death of his wife and who had, as a result, been eventually dismissed from the service. He was a lighthearted fellow of a generous hand who had taken to life in Tortuga in earnest, and who also, by chance, was oft inclined to use his familiarity with the Royal Navy and Caribbean aristocracy to the advantage of his fellow drunkards, harlots, and general unsavory outcasts. Needless it was to say that, with as many times as he'd led his sympathetic Navy mates astray during the chase, he had a good many friends among the ranks in Tortuga. 

""Why Duck, you bootlicker," said Jack to his old friend, flouncing away from the balcony to where Duck Chumbler sat against a crumbling fountain in the street, surrounded by a bevy of slightly unappetizing womenfolk, and a half dozen empty bottles (which explained the willing tolerance of slightly unappetizing womenfolk). Duck was a man of presence even when drunk off his arse, a man of such magnificently large proportions that you couldn't help but be aware of him. His was a sentimental soul, and, though his bursting heart had nearly burst through the tarnished buttons of his old uniform, old Duck still wore all the polishings of a Navy man, from his uncomfortable boots right up to his little powdered wig, which had fallen dangerously askew during his romancing. 

"With compliments like that, I suspect I should throw down piracy this instant and take up the honorable business of being pleasurable. Reckon I could pull in?" Jack finished, and pulled a hearty laugh from the rotund baboon. The ladies surrounding Duck giggled also, and fluttered their kohled eyes lavishly at the swarthy joker. Their chuckles didn't last long, though, for a newcomer was fast approaching, and she looked in the mood for anything but laughter. 

"Jack Sparrow! I'll have yer ruddy head!" 

"Uh oh. Duck, ladies, if you'll excuse . . ." Hearing the irate female voice shrieking behind him quickly put Jack in the mood to exit, stage left. But, before he could take one stumbling step toward safety (aye, before he could even finish his sentence), he was rounded on. 

_SLAP!_

"That seems to happen quite a lot," he muttered, and stared frankly at what he suspected might be an extraordinarily pretty woman, once the paint was chipped off. He screwed up his eyes and tried to picture her face white where now it was all red. 

"Ophelia?"--hard glare from the lady in question--"Ah, that is, I meant to say, _Katherine_." 

"That's right, _Katherine_." she replied, holding up her fist and shaking it horribly at him. "And seein' as ye can recall me name _so_ well, maybe ye can explain _this_." Fist-shaking now very close to Jack's rapidly crossing eyes. 

"I'd say that was your fist—your very lovely and powerful fist, of course," Jack replied quickly, stumbling around his brain for any relevant memories. He found many—women of Tortuga (or, for that matter, the world) seemed to have a penchant for beating up on him. 

"No, you damn bumblin' fool of a pirate! _This_," she opened her fist and shoved its glittering gold contents under his nose. She went on, rather violently. "Did ye think I'd ne'er get it open, eh? Did ye think I were too witless t' open a _locket_?" 

"Of course not, love," Jack replied in his most soothing voice. Duck and the girls were, by now, guffawing with sheer abandon. Katherine, however, ignored them all and plowed on unhindered. 

"Did ye think I didn't know me own name?" She threw the locket to his feet and spat after it. _"Where did she drag that up from? That can't possibly be healthy."_ "Juliet, it says, _Juliet!_ Do I look like some tawdry trollop named _Juliet_, eh Jack Sparrow?" 

"Ahem, _Captain_," 

Juliet--err, Katherine--hurrumphed very loudly, turned on her heel, and stalked away. Several piercing whistles emitted from the balcony as the vexed madam sulked against the purse of a very burly, and very drunk customer, leaving Jack to smile charmingly and shrug his shoulders, even as a welcoming party of less-vexed Jennies welcomed them to their bosoms and their beds. 

------------------------------ 

A few footnotes for easier reading: 1. A fathom is a length of 6 ft. Arr, fear my pirate speech! 2. _Ophelia_ and _Katherine_ are two characters from Shakespeare. Ophelia appeared in _Hamlet_, and was described as a sweet, innocent, maidenly girl. Katherine, however, was the shrew in _The Taming of the Shrew_, who was sharp-tongued, quick tempered, and prone to violence. Now we know our star madam up there is _definitely_ not Ophelia. Heh. 


	3. Enter the Captain

**Disclaimer:** Alas, but Jack Sparrow, ahem, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow and his crew be not of me possession. I may be the fiercest scalawag this side o' the map, but I be but a humble servant of all that is Disney. Arr.. 

**Notes from the Author:** After nearly a year-long hiatus, _Ascent into Legend_ has returned! Let me know what you think about the new chapter, maties...I be a little rusty with the ol' Cutlass of Doom at this point, but hopefully me skill will return!

------------------------------ 

**Ascent into Legend   
Chapter III**

Abed was the last place that found Jack Sparrow on that clear Tortuga night, and abed was where you'd find him nigh on eleven the next morning, though it could be assured that he had only just begun the business of sleeping. The heavy drapes, which had been drawn proudly aside all night, were now closed, affording very little light to filter through the room's interior, and that was just how Jack liked it (he'd be skippered if he'd toss the whole night through just to be kept awake by that damn jealous sunshine). He had his arm around the lady whose bed he shared, a patched cotton fluffer thrown over the two of them, and his hat tipped over his face, so as to catch his snores. 

Though not much could be heard over Jack's noise, outside the door a heated argument had sprung up between Fat Franny, the proprietor of the establishment, and a lady of unknown origin. The latter was a tall, broad-shouldered woman, her ample bosoms rather stuffed into a silk gown, which, while fine, was almost a decade out of style and fraying badly at the hem. Apparently, due to uncertainties as to what the unknown woman was up to in her place of business (and dressed to the hilt, to boot), Franny had mistakenly offered her a position. The woman in question, already having a much more profitable occupation, had been understandably upset, and had taken to tongue-lashing the confused Madam. Now, Fat Franny hadn't gotten hold of the finest brothel in Tortuga by sitting on her duff in silence, and she quickly put the stranger to a tongue-lashing of her own.

After the drawing of pistols on both sides (for neither woman had grown up in polite society, and both knew what impolite society was capable of), the provoked newcomer managed to convey her intentions with the help of a smartly dressed man who seemed to be in her association. With his polished boots, velvet coat and ruffled cravat, the pert man accompanying the stranger quickly drew a crowd of ladies who rarely saw his kind in the cathouse. He, however, remained staunchly oblivious to their coy flirtations, and followed his companion silently into the very room where Jack sparrow lay recuperating.

First, the unidentified lady called Jack's name loudly to rouse him, her voice rough and cracked from long years of shouting, but to no avail. Her composure already thin, she kicked his foot as it dangled over the edge of the bed, calling to him again. Still, he slept on. Her impatience having reached its peak by then, she marched directly to his side of the bed, intending to wake him by more abrupt means—that is, a sharp slap in the face. However, she only got as far as lifting his hat, for, immediately after that, his eyes popped open and he snatched at his missing headgear out of pure reflex.

Jack started out of his sleep, a curse launching off his tongue, when a sharp, harsh laugh resounded throughout the little room. Jack bolted up in the bed, and the jenny beside him (who had finally managed to return to the land of the living) squealed and covered her head with the blanket. The owner of that piercing laughter had been the lady, the hand of whom was crushing Jack's trifold against her hip.

Now, this wasn't the first time Jack had been startled out of his morning sleep next to a woman, Jenny or otherwise, but it _was_ the first time that he found himself staring at a mystery woman with a cruel smile on her face (as opposed to a familiar woman with a look of digust/anguish/anger, or an unfamiliar man with a look of righteous fury/towering rage/belligerent hatred). Jack gave her a quick once-over, took in the sturdy leather boots peeking out below the raveled hem of her turquoise-and-green silk skirt, her narrow waist and abundant breasts, her sternly set shoulders, wide for a woman of that age, and, finally, the harsh features of her face beneath the most ridiculous hat he had ever seen (and he'd seen quite a few in his day), the brim of which spread outward at least half a foot on all sides, and was covered with more gaily colored feathers than a whole flock of peacocks. (Jack had to quickly stifle a snort of laughter at the sight.)

However inexperienced he was with this particular sort of wake-up call, Jack decided to play a familiar card: humor. A bit of a joke didn't always deter his assailant, but trying to draw out a laugh was a far better alternative to trying to draw his pistol out of a pair of britches that were God-knows-where.

"Don'chy know it's bad luck to wake a man when he's sleepin', lady?" Jack asked, grinning not a little with the knowledge that there wasn't a bucket of water anywhere in sight.

"Fortunately, I know how to counter it," Jack could hardly believe the turn of the conversation, "The person who did the waking wrings the scrawny neck of the beef-witted, doghearted _waister_ that was sleeping. 'Ll'that do?" Hearing the contemptuous tone of the threat, Jack glanced at the only door to the room in hopes of escape, but his eyes found only the dapper dandy with his hand casually slung on a pistol.

"Come now, love," Jack began, then winced at the rattle of disgust she expelled at the word "love." He knew now he was treading dangerous waters, and held out his hands to appease the ill-tempered lady, grinning crookedly. He'd been in worse fixes before, after all. He started again.

"Beggin' your pardon, missus, no offense meant. I was only wondering what your lovely name might be before you do me the honest favor of telling ol' Jack what your business is in his, er, _compromised position_."

"My _name_ is Black Mary Ironsides, but you may call me Captain, as I'm here on errand to seize your sorry hide as my hostage."

------------------------------ 

_Pirate Speak!_: waister, n.---an incompetant sailor. Heheh.


	4. Jack Marches On

**Disclaimer:** Alas, but Jack Sparrow, ahem, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow and his crew be not of me possession. I may be the fiercest scalawag this side o' the map, but I be but a humble servant of all that is Disney. Arr.. 

**Notes from the Author:** Seems like Jack has got himself into something of a fix...but he'll get out of it, right? Read on, maties! 

------------------------------ 

**Ascent into Legend   
Chapter III**

"I'll have you know, Madame, that I am no man to be shanghaied! No man shanghais Captain Jack Sparrow!" Jack cried out in outrage, but his words were of little consequence --- no matter what he said, his muddy-brown arms would still be locked behind him in a pair of shackles even he lacked the skill to shirk. Had they been ordinary irons, a few flicks of his nimble wrist (and the sliver of metal he had kept hidden in one of his wrist-wrappings since that embarrassing incident in Port Royal a few months before) would have seen him free again, but it would have taken a flick of the Almighty's wrist to set Jack free from the vice-like grip of the enormous Negro that held his hands fast. 

"Unlucky fer you, mate, Cap'n Ironsides ain't no man." 

Jack scowled heartily into the tanned face of a short, bow-legged man who was trotting alongside he and his giant warden. The bow-legged man, whose shaggy black hair strongly reminded Jack of an mangy dog's, only grinned toothily in response. 

Jack turned his eyes back to the woman at the head of the little procession. Some time after she and her goons (who had appeared in his Jenny's room, as if on cue, at the sound of her name) had drug him bare-arsed from his Jenny's bed, shoved him in a much too short and somewhat moldy shift, and marched him from the brothel, the hostile woman who called herself Black Mary had turned into an empty alley between a pub and the local chapel. She had reappeared without the gaudy adornment of previous description, but her new attire was almost as ridiculous as the peacock-hat had been before. Never in his life had Jack seen a woman dressed in such clothes, though his manly eye didn't fail to notice the charms of such an outfit: knit black pants clung deliciously to Black Mary's firm thighs above a pair of unusually tall leather boots, and her breasts strained against the material of a poet's blouse, full, high, and proud. 

Jack found, much to his surprise, that neither Mary's long legs nor her tempting breasts held his attention for long. Jack was a clever businessman and he knew fine Arabian silk when he saw it, and he saw it in plenty swathed low around the hips of his kidnapper and tied round her head, holding back a torrent of ginger curls. Rich, delicate, and deliciously expensive red Arabian silk, shot through with so much gold embroidery that the fabric had to be heavy as a treasure chest. Jack's mouth watered at the sight of it --- mayhap he would have to get to know this Black Mary better. He'd let this little ruse play out (he neglected to note in his mental wanderings that he had little choice in the matter, what with the iron grip of the Negro behind him), and maybe he'd let her keep her fancy belt if she pleased him. Not the headband, though --- such hair was meant to be kissed by the winds. 

Jack was staring so boldly and completely at Black Mary's lower quarters that he hardly registered when they stopped suddenly in front of him; in fact, he would have run his slobbering, money-eyed face right into her red-draped derriere had not his "bodyguard" held him fast. Jack staggered in a somewhat-abbreviated version of his usual style (what with being detained and all), slung a cockeyed grin on his lips, and whistled to compensate for his distraction. His sharp eye noted that Black Mary's little party had reached the docks. 

Jack couldn't help but let out a little sigh at the sight of the noonday seashine, the glittering lights that sparkled up from the water in the bright sunlight. He felt the familiar tug of the ocean tides on his heart, smelled the salt of sweat and seawater, heard the shrieks of the wheeling seagulls above him. Lord, but he was a sentimental ninny. The sharp bark of a confident captain came to Jack's ears, and he briefly imagined himself aboard his first vessel, stumbling over himself to impress his commander and instead tripping him up with a stray mop. 


End file.
